An Honest Day's Work
by Mousme
Summary: Part 15 of the Fusion 'verse. Sam finds a way to help out.


Title: **An Honest Day's Work**

Summary: Part of the Fusion 'verse. Sam finds a way to help out.

Characters: Sam, Dean, OCs.

Rating: PG

Wordcount: 3,234

Disclaimer: I make no claim to any of it.

Warnings: None.

Neurotic Author's Note #1: I was just thinking that it had been a while since I posted anything to Fusion, and that it had been even longer since I posted anything other than the "flashbacks" in that story. So I wrote this bit, which comes right after **Out of the Light**.

Neurotic Author's Note #2: Unbeta'd, as usual.

* * *

They're out of coffee. Sam thinks Dean probably never got around to buying more ever since the accident. He lines up his meds on the counter, awkward and clumsy as he's still getting used to using his left hand for most things, but he manages well enough, which he takes as an encouraging sign. He carefully avoids Perry's food dishes, half-fills a glass with water. He's lost the habit of dry-swallowing his pills —there are too many of them now to ever do that comfortably— and there's something nice about not having to do it anymore, not to feel as though even a swallow of water to make painkillers go down easier is more than he deserves.

He finds his old note still folded up under a jar on the counter. He doesn't know why Dean kept it, but he suspects it's one of those things that makes Dean, Dean. He thinks it's because Dean remembers all too well when Sam couldn't so much as write his own name, and that by itself just putting pen to paper is a testament to how far he's come. To how far they've both come. Sentimental or not, it works out well, because it's not like Sam can pen a note with his left hand —it's hard enough keeping his writing legible with his dominant hand, but he's given up on hand-writing anything as long as it's still in a cast. It all comes out looking like squiggles and scratches and is illegible at best. He unfolds the old note, smooths it against the table with the palm of his hand, then weights it down with the sugar pot. It's not far to the store, he reasons, and Dean is exhausted from juggling work, Perry, and countless hospital visits. Not to mention Sam wants to check at the post office. It might be a little early to expect mail, but he still wants to check.

It always takes a little time to get out the door. Sam keeps a list in a small black notebook in his pocket. Lists help him keep track of things, so he likes to keep them all in the same place, easily to hand. He checks over his 'leaving the house' list: note for Dean, wallet, coat, boots, keys, wristwatch. He rarely checks the time these days, but he has to make a point of knowing what time he leaves the house, so he can know if he's been gone too long. There's a temporary addition to his list: his sling, so he doesn't jostle his arm. Tying his bootlaces is tricky, but he manages well enough now. He can wriggle the fingers on his right hand, move them enough to help a little bit with two-handed jobs. He checks the door, turns the key in the lock. Key in his right coat pocket, notebook in his left. Everything's the way it's supposed to be. Note, wallet, coat, boots, keys, wristwatch, sling. He makes sure his card is still hanging around his neck, the way it should be. All present and accounted for. It's a good day, he thinks with a smile.

Outside, the weather is already showing signs of the coming spring. The ice is gone from the streets, the snow melting away except for some of the deeper patches on the lawn. The air is filled with the scent of the thaw, of slowly-awakening earth. It's hard to believe that two and a half weeks ago he was sitting in weather that was below freezing, feeling the sleet soak into his jeans. It's seven blocks to the store. Seven blocks, and he can count the steps. It's bright out here, the sun rising steadily over the horizon, but it's not too bright to see. He just has to think about where he's putting his feet, and count his steps. One, two, three, seventeen. The street goes by slowly, spots of bright colours in his peripheral vision. Sam gets to the store, counts his steps, hears chiming, musical and happy, when he pushes the door open. Someone brushes up against him and he freezes, halfway over the threshold.

"Hi Sam!" a voice says, cheerful and already growing fainter as the person moves past, going along toward the rest of their day.

He twists his head to look after them, but it's too late, they're too far to see. "Hi."

He can't stand in the doorway. Other people need to get in and out, and he's in the way if he stands here. It's three steps to be out of the way. Sam pauses, looks around, fiddles with the edge of his sling. His thumb catches against the smooth surface of his cast.

"Good morning, Sam." Another voice, but closer. It stays still, so Sam turns, stares a little until the face comes out of the mass of bright colours. It takes him another moment to remember Drew's name. "It's good to see you up and about. How's the arm?"

It's not the question he was expecting, and for a moment he doesn't know what to answer. Arm? He glances down at his cast, flexes his fingers. "Um... I, it's okay. It's better."

"Good, that's great," Drew moves to pat him on the arm, but stops himself before Sam even has time to so much as flinch. "So what can we do for you this morning? Are you looking for something?"

He didn't write it down. Sam's gaze flicks to Drew, back to his own fingers, back to Drew. It's a simple enough question, he tells himself, all he has to do is answer. There's a flash of light, so loud he almost loses track, but it dies down again.

"We, uh, we're out of coffee."

"Okay. You remember where the coffee is? Or would you like someone to give you a hand with that?"

He shakes his head. "I remember."

Drew gives him a smile. "All right, then. You know to ask if you need anything. I'm going to get back to work. Enjoy your day!"

Coffee is two aisles over, halfway down the aisle. He doesn't have to count, not anymore. Green can, red can, blue can. Dean likes the coffee that comes in the blue can, but sometimes the red can isn't as expensive. Sam knows the names, but it's not important, not really, and he mostly doesn't bother to remember them. He has to pick his battles, and coffee brands are useless knowledge. He stares at the shelves, waits for the numbers to come into focus. Everything's still slow, but it's not as hard as it was. The painkillers made it impossible to read for a few days, but he hasn't needed those in a while, and at home he doesn't have trouble concentrating anymore, hasn't in months. It's just outside that the world tends to get all mixed up, needs just that extra bit of focus in order to make sense.

The blue can is cheaper, he sees, and he smiles. Dean'll like that. He picks up the largest can, tucks it under his broken arm, turns to go and nearly trips over something just below hip-level. He stops short, blinking against a sudden flash of light, the sound of screams suddenly drowning out everything around him. It's not real, Sam tells himself. Not real. There's pink. Pink, and light catching off... sparkling. Princess. He blinks again —it's a pink sweatshirt with 'Princess' stencilled on it in rhinestones. Lily Blake. The screams die down again and he smiles, drops to a crouch so he's not looming over her. Kids hate that.

"Hi Lily. How are you?"

Lily is sucking on her finger, and Sam wonders how old she is. He thought she was older than that, but it's hard to tell sometimes, with children. She stares at the floor, too shy to answer. Sam can understand that, at least. He puts his good hand in his pocket, comes up with a nickel.

"You think your mom would be okay with my buying you a lollipop?"

She looks up, pulls her finger from her mouth, nods. He's about to ask her where her mother is when he hears Tillie Blake's voice coming from somewhere behind him, piercing through the veil of blurry colours like a bolt of lightning.

"Lily! You stay away from him!"

Sam jerks back like he's been burned, scrambles back to his feet, catches the can of coffee before it can fall, clutches it to his chest like a shield as Tillie comes running down the aisle to pull her daughter away.

"I didn't mean..." he starts, stops as the shapes blur into light.

"We have to go," Tillie says sharply, and the light gets louder, almost deafening so that he can't hear whatever she says next.

He takes a step backward, another, until he feels the cold, hard line of the shelf behind him dig into his back. For a moment everything simply disappears. Voices echo all around him, screaming his name, the light reverberating with them until he forgets what he's doing, drops the coffee can with a clatter, reaching to rub at his wrist. It's not real, he reminds himself. Not real, but the light is still too loud, too bright, and he's lost track of which way is out. There's another voice —a real voice, he's almost sure of it— talking just beyond the screaming. He can't quite hear, forces himself to concentrate, catches the tail-end of the words.

"… your daughter's life. You can't just treat him like he's got some sort of contagious disease, Tillie."

"Look, I know what he did, and I'm grateful, but I won't have Lily around him. How can I know that he won't suddenly turn violent?"

He ignores the screaming. It's not real. "I'm not," he turns toward the voices. "I'm not bad."

Her face swims briefly into focus, blurs back into the light. "But you've hurt people before."

Sam can't deny that. He's done nothing but hurt people all his life. "I don't anymore," he says softly. He doesn't know if she heard him.

"I can't take that chance, not with my little girl. Come on, Lily."

Something round and cold presses against his hand. When he grasps it, he realizes it's the coffee can he dropped, which someone's handing back to him. His chest is aching, and he can't figure out why until he realizes he's been holding his breath. He lets it out slowly, shakes his head.

"Sam?"

He opens his mouth, closes it again. It's not that bad, he tells himself, none of it is real. If Dean was here, he'd tell him it wasn't real, squeeze his shoulder until that was the only thing he could feel, let Perry lick his face. It's not real, none of it.

"Sam, do you need me to call Dean for you?"

Dean's sleeping. It's Monday, which is Dean's last day off before work, and he's sleeping in for the first time in weeks, since long before Sam had his accident and screwed everything up. Dean barely slept after the accident, spent all his time at work, or sitting with Sam, or arguing with the doctors who wanted to keep Sam in the hospital and give him more drugs he didn't need. Dean deserves his morning off. Sam takes a breath, stands up straight, shakes his head again.

"No. No, I —it's okay. I just... we're out of coffee, so I should..." he stops, can't find the word he's looking for, all his thoughts drowning in the light.

"Okay, you got your coffee right there. Do you want to come pay for it?"

The aisle slowly starts swimming into focus again. Drew —the name comes back a moment later— reaches out and carefully puts a hand on his elbow. Sam catches his lower lip in his teeth, lets Drew pull him away from where he's back up against the shelves. He came to buy coffee, he can still do that.

"Can you tell me what time it is?" He needs to know how long he's been gone, just in case Dean starts to worry.

"It's nearly eight thirty. Come on to the express cash, we'll get you checked out."

It's a good day, Sam reminds himself. There are twelve steps from the end of the aisle to the express cash. He doesn't have to count, but it helps him focus. He puts the coffee can down on the counter, pulls his wallet out of his back pocket. There's almost nothing in his wallet these days: no fake I.D., no driver's license, no photographs. There's only a few bills, mostly five and tens, a laminated card with his name and address and Dean's cell phone number, similar to the one he always has around his neck, but nothing else. He pulls out a five-dollar bill and hands it to Drew, pockets his change and declines a bag.

"Better for the environment, right?" Drew jokes,but Sam doesn't laugh. He thinks maybe he should have. "Hey, your brother's here. Look."

"Dean?"

Sam doesn't see where Drew is pointing, but his head jerks up automatically anyway. It takes him a moment to spot Dean coming up to the store with his distinctive, slightly jerky gait, cane in one hand and the end of Perry's leash in the other. He picks up the coffee, hurries toward the door, getting there just seconds before his brother, who's shifting his cane to his other hand in order to open it. Dean's grin is the same as always, tinged with relief. He smells faintly of cigarette, which must mean he smoked one on the way here and got rid of it just before getting to the store. It's not like he can really fool Sam, but they both pretend Sam hasn't noticed.

"Hey, Sammy. I was just coming to find you."

He lifts the can and waggles it. "We were out of coffee."

"Yeah, I saw your note. Very cute, re-using your old one," Dean pokes him in the shoulder as Perry takes her cue to sit primly at his feet, staring up at him with undisguised adoration, just waiting for the signal to go again. "Why didn't you wake me?"

Sam shrugs. "Wanted to let you sleep. It's your day off," he says. 'And you're exhausted,' he adds mentally, but Dean is actually looking okay for once, the circles under his eyes faded, no lines of pain or stress around his mouth.

"Yeah, well, next time just wake me up. You ready to go, then?"

He nods. The last time he went out without Dean, he ended up in the hospital. It's normal for Dean to be anxious, even if it's not necessary. "I want to go to the post office first. Is that okay?"

"Sure. We can go to the bakery for breakfast after, if you want."

Sam hesitates, but if Dean thinks it's okay, then it's probably okay. Ten dollars' worth of breakfast isn't going to make a difference at this point. He hooks his arm around Dean's, waits for his brother to sort out his cane and signal to Perry, matches his pace to theirs so that he doesn't throw Dean off-balance.

"You okay?"

Dean nudges him with an elbow. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

Sam just grins and shrugs. It's a nice day out, now that the sun is higher, and he lets himself relax a little, enjoying the sunshine as they walk, tilting his head up a little into the warmth of the rays. The light isn't as bright anymore, and the screaming is gone again, at least for now. He can make out the shops now, the outlines of signs, hears the sound of cars driving by through the still-wet streets, people on their way to work. He holds the door to the post office open for Dean, who flashes him another grin and pats his arm as he goes in, keeping him grounded, and heads toward the counter.

"Hey beautiful," Dean leans on the counter, the very picture of nonchalance, gives the clerk a wink, and she laughs and blushes. "How've you been? Seems like forever I haven't seen you."

Sam rolls his eyes. "I'm going to check our box. By all means, don't let me interrupt."

Dean smirks, goes right back to flirting with Florence, who's definitely old enough to be their mother, and Sam decides to leave well enough alone. He fishes the key to the post-office box out of his pocket, grins when he finds a small brown envelope inside, which he turns to flash in Dean's direction. Dean turns back to him, one eyebrow raised.

"What you got there, Sammy?"

"Tell you over breakfast."

Dean is fairly brimming with curiosity by the time they get to the bakery and Margery has set them up with coffee and muffins at a window table, Perry lying at their feet with her muzzle resting on her paws. "Okay, come on, I'm dying here. What the hell did you get that I didn't know about?"

Sam pours sugar into his coffee and hands over the envelope with a smile, ducking his head so Dean won't see him blush. "You can open it. I didn't want to say anything, in case it didn't work out."

Dean looks puzzled, but uses the knife to slit open the envelope, pulls out the slip of paper inside, and Sam feels a funny pinching sensation in his chest when he sees his brother's expression change. "Sammy, this is a check. What..."

Sam doesn't let him finish his sentence. "I earned it. I mean, Bobby helped by putting the word out, but I thought... I knew we didn't have much money," he stumbles over his explanation, "even before the accident. I can't work on my own —I mean, I can't have a job. You know that. I'm not... I can't keep things straight. But I still know everything I knew before, so I thought, maybe I could still be useful, and so I made a website, and this is for the first job I got. Translating," he clarifies, when he sees Dean still staring at him. "I have a few clients lined up. It's not very much, but it'll help."

"Sam..." Dean's hand tightens around the check, creasing it slightly, and Sam realizes to his surprise that his voice is choked. "When did you do this?"

He shrugs, toys with his spoon. "What did you think I do all day while you were at work? There's only so many times I can clean the whole house before it gets boring. Uh, anyway, I thought I could endorse it, and you could deposit it in your account. I don't know if I can keep track of an account right now anyway, but you can, right?"

Dean huffs a laugh, but Sam still isn't sure that he's not closer to tears. "Jesus, Sam. I thought we were done keeping secrets?"

Sam's grip tightens on his spoon. "It wasn't a secret, it was a surprise. It's different."

"I guess it is, at that." Dean grins, hands him back the check, and Sam feels some of the tightness ease from his chest when it becomes clear his brother isn't mad at him. "You know what this means, right?"

"What?"

"Breakfast is on you today, geek-boy."


End file.
